The tired sun is shining outside. It is not blazoning though, but slices through the church windows like a swift Japanese Ke, dismantling the serene picture of the Lord on one of the stained windows. I shift slowly on the uneven pews, and then begin counting them in rows. I do not know why, but it seems to be the perfect thing to do at the moment, a moment that I can safely call ‘pure insanity’, a moment that is creeping up through me like a mongrel of a disease. I should be a zombie. I should be roaming the streets, a disease that cannot be healed, a leprosy that is malign. I am a being that is destined for a bleak life. But here I am, in this colloquial place, this place that is so devoid of any hope. This place that seems to be desolate of peace. The irony of it stings me in the face, like a cold and twisted briar that seems to be tainting my fate. But I will wait. I will wait once more, once more for that light; that light at the end of the tunnel that I have sought for and never seem to find.

I will wait…

I'm desperate again. That is the sole reason why I'm under his roof. Under this unwelcoming church house; in this claustrophobic hole. And the pastor cannot help. Or so he says. The conversation we just had the other day was quite sincere enough. It still rings in my ears like a diseased bumble bee stung by its own weapon of destruction.

 "Why do you do all these things you do?" I remember how he asks me, his quiet eyes trying to etch into mine. And the question has a sharp twang to it, like it is coming from the cut of Japanese double-edged sword.

And I still vividly remember how I shudder at his unnerving question. "What is it that you can help me with Pastor?" I ask him, turning my eye at the desolateness of the church. There should be people here with me. People who need to be saved. People who need redemption. Not me. But for me, redemption has swayed too far away for me to ever reach its tenacious grasp. For me it is now a mere hopelessness. I now stand alone, atop a hill of desolateness and I feel cold, and I cannot see my own shadow behind me. There is no hint of sun in the place where my soul now takes refuge.

The Pastor, stoically gives me that look that a man gives to his rabid dog, or to a dog that has not caught the disc that he wanted to find in-between its teeth. Then he sighs, and says, "Young man, your life is wasting away in this obscure city. Your soul is lost in the recesses of this city. You should go back to where your roots are. You should go back, start all over. Start all over afresh. It helps."

Then he pauses, waiting for a reaction from me. I'm not quick to give in to his intentions.

 "Back? Back to where?" Emotion is buttered with that question. He has said this before. “Back to where, Pastor?” I stare at him, my eyes drilling into his. Wanting to overwhelm him, needing to overpower his calmness. He looks down. The man is silent, taunting me again. What does he want from me? This is where it all begins. I need to go back to where it started, the man says. But I do not want to take that sordid sojourn again. No, that voyage will take me to the deep, to the crevices of my life that I cannot get myself out. I cannot go back to face the hideous skeletons in the closet. I must be strong. The time for total redemption sounds close. I cannot go back to where it starts. Not now. Not ever…

He is thinking now, the Pastor, and I can see it in his eyes.

 “Listen, son…” he begins, ever so carefully, like the man he is. He cannot mince his words here, for he needs to tell me the truth. Truth must be told for hope to live. And hope must be grasped for a soul to keep on stepping forward. I wait with a passion. 

 But in the meantime... in the meanwhile... the proverbial prodigal son soon goes away, and the tail is never between his legs. The tail is not there. It is not there because he has cut that tail. The story is plain. His is a simple story. The lost son departs on a dark journey inside his lonely ark, and he swears vehemently, and vows never to return to this godforsaken land again. He raises a fist of discern, a fist of revolt at everything and anything he has been taught. It is a chagrin he will stay with. He refutes the balance of nature; and has decided to re-align all the laws of life, the laws of love, the laws of anything and everything that can be called sane. All he has with him is the pure brevity of all life, of how succinct it is. Of how clustered and amalgamated it has been wrought for him. The levity of life is merely an echo long gone, a loud dirge unheard from a distance. A sad gong dithering from an old and forgotten church tower. For the prodigal son has not received his blessing, and so his heart, like that of Jacob, is tight-fisted. Cold it is. It has snapped up its life-giving sin remains silent... 

I can see it in his eyes. It is as if his whole head is open to me. I marvel at how and why I am able to read the streams of thoughts that run in that mind of his. The disparities of the stuff that our minds are made of makes me wonder how I can manage to get into his head, and decipher all his deepest thoughts. Maybe he can do the same about my mind. Maybe the Pastor can read my thoughts. I can only hope not. And hope is a good thing.

He looks at me again, those two eyes trying to delve deep into mine. I keep my mind blocked, for he must not access its contents. Not now, not now when it counts the most. I look down at my feet, a sign that means I acknowledge what he has told me before. But what of now? Then I rub my hands together. Sometimes I think I should never have to face such a holy man. But then sometimes the holy ones are the ones who are more susceptible to the evil things of the world. The evil of the world revolves around these 'holy' men. The evil knows that if it can linger more around these men, then it may just untap the holy secrets that they posses. This Pastor, he is beyond error, or so he thinks. The holy ones, they call them. They’re a bunch of good-for-nothing men who have found the yardstick lighter to bear. They are like Jesus and his cross…

The Pastor sighs, and I know the deep sigh, that deep sigh that means he wants to say something holy, something beyond my scope of imagination, or doing. But the sigh continues. "You need to find your way, son. The way is better to find. Carry your load. The elephant and his trunk never tire one another. Find God, and he’ll set the road for you…" The Pastor stops to check whether the words of wisdom are sinking in. 

They are not…

But I’m nodding, as usual. I nod when I don't understand anything. I have been nodding all my life, nodding sometimes at things that have been utterly wrong, at things that have entrenched me to this state that I am now. The nod is now merely a reflex action that is driven by nothing. It means nothing and stands for everything. It is my flaw, but somehow, I still abide by it like a blinkered animal. I look at the Pastor, and then clear my throat.

The time is now. I must tell him this now:

"...I'm a tired man, Pastor. My life is tiring me. It is like a tread-less tyre that does not want to leave any of its mark anywhere. It flirts with me. It plays, it tortures and it sutures my head. To the very brink. The very brink that is almost on to my neck. I feel it in the air, in the water, in the sky. Change. Something inevitable, something huge is on my path, on my way. A dark cloud that veils my very sight. An immense sound that shrouds my judgement is on the path that I’m travelling on. It is a bitter wrangle that disfigures my very sense of recall, of taste, of anything and everything that I have ever known. And that cloud hovers closer every day, ready to clout me in its nefarious grip. And I feel my bones being squashed entirely, to a pulp; to speckles of dust in the air. It is like a horrible nightmare, only that it is very nightmarish and hellish indeed, and I live in it, and it makes me wake up in the wee hours of a day, soiled by sweat and defeat. That cloud hovers closer and closer by the day. And it’s a hell lot bigger than the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. I suddenly do not know what to do…"

 He looks at me and says nothing.

I have told him all of this, I have told him the matters of my whole heart and he does not want to say anything. I know why though. I tell him, but I tell him only in my mind. The words barely come out of my lips. It is all in my head...

How I wish he could see the boils in my brain. How I wish he could be able to see my mind clearly, as in the manner that I am able to see his. How I wish he could see…the confusion, the awkwardness of it all. The derelict mess that I am in. The dilapidation and bizarreness that saunters across my mind. But he must not see all of this. That would make me a weak man, and weak men have no place in this macabre world. There is no solace for them. They would crumble, the weak men, if there are any in this world. 

I return from the brief sojourn of madness, the journey of insanity that I partake in, every second of my life.

 "I'm here, son. Lay all your burdens at my feet, the good Lord encourages. Turn from your evil ways..." The Pastor says.

Careful Pastor. Careful with the words, man of God...

  "Goodbye Pastor," I suddenly surprise myself by standing up. I have not told him anything. It was all in my head, not on my lips. "I have to go, sir..."

The man lifts his hand from my shoulder. It was a weight, and he shows it by sighing.

 "Find the right way, son. The two paths are there for to choose. You must choose carefully." 

His voice reminds me as I get closer to the door of his church.

...I will find my way, Pastor. Yes I will. I will find my own way. But in the meantime, there are scores to settle. In the meanwhile, there are men to fix, women to sex up, bodies to partition, men to hack. These are the nocturnal times for the hunt. These are the nights of the vigil. These are the glorious days that Achilles and Beowulf saw in the golden ages. This is the tragedy I am embroiled in. Whether it is a gift or a curse, or both, I do not know. The trophy now lies not too far from the stretching hand. I must run the course. I feel for the paperback in my pocket, and finding it there surges a relief from inside me. This is the relief I have not felt for some time now. I crave for it. I hunger for it. I long for it. I cannot sleep. I hunger. I hunger for more...

But in the meantime... in the meanwhile... the proverbial prodigal son soon goes away, and the tail is never between his legs. The tail is not there. It is not there because he has cut that tail. The story is plain. His is a simple story. The lost son departs on a dark journey inside his lonely ark, and he swears vehemently, and vows never to return to this godforsaken land again. He raises a fist of discern, a fist of revolt at everything and anything he has been taught. It is a chagrin he will stay with. He refutes the balance of nature; and has decided to re-align all the laws of life, the laws of love, the laws of anything and everything that can be called sane. All he has with him is the pure brevity of all life, of how succinct it is. Of how clustered and amalgamated it has been wrought for him. The levity of life is merely an echo long gone, a loud dirge unheard from a distance. A sad gong dithering from an old and forgotten church tower. For the prodigal son has not received his blessing, and so his heart, like that of Jacob, is tight-fisted. Cold it is. It has snapped up its life-giving sinews. It is now wound by the inept injustices of the world, tight razor wire meshes that make it bleed and bleed. The heart is roped by malice, a malevolent need to fix all things that walk upon the very face of the earth. There is no remorse there. No, not there. And forgiveness to him is only a reprised moment that does not last. Forgiving is only a word engineered by man. It has no place in the heart of the prodigal, where a cold stone now resides firmly in place of the heart. He must wander the desolate realms of his insanity, wandering, lusting, hungering for a truth that he cannot find. He must search amongst the intrepid debris of the world, search amongst the blunders and bludgeons of the earth. He must look for a solace to his fatally wounded heart. He cannot forgive now, or an arrow might just destroy his heel, and keel him over, now, now when the goal seems to shine in the yellow horizon. Forgiveness is a trait earned from mother to son. But to him, it is a word that must have no place in this treacherous world. He wipes it from his dictionary at that obscure moment. Then he turns, and nods quietly at the Pastor, who is looking at him with a crude sadness. 

  “Will I see you again, child?” the man poses a question. 

“Goodbye old man, goodbye Pastor. Goodbye, my father...” I say without emotion.


CHAPTER TWO

2210hrs...

My name is J.... 

I have a surname, or used to have one, but I will not utter it here. I will not utter it anywhere. Only those who know me know me, and they are the only ones who can utter my name. I will not utter it myself. And that is a fact, and I always stick to facts. Facts do not have repercussions. They do not have any retributions. Facts stay as facts. 
  
I have no middle name, and I have no heart, but a stone resides in its place. It feels heavy but a man must bear the brunt of his life. He must bear the brunt of his deeds, of all his mistakes, his mistakes, his misgivings. It is merely a tergiversation, an apostasy so derailed from the natural and usual norms. But then again this is my life, and I choose how to turn the reigns. I’m not blinkered. I’m not homophobic. I am not evil. These are not the traits that make me or describe me. I simply follow the plan of life that lies at my feet. And that plan is my only altar, and I bow down at it, burning the incense of confusion and regret. I have no fear. I have no life that I can call a life. There is neither love nor remorse in my mind, body or spirit, nor any recall of all things good, nor of all things in life that are sweet smelling and good to the heart of man. I can be called a machine, a predator who responds through the most of primal instincts, or lowest and severest ebb of life. It is my life, but I have not chosen it. It chose me when it abandoned me. It chose me when it clearly distinguished me from the crowd. And I returned that call with a loud whistle, and decided to dance to the gruesome tune. To dance with wolves, to dance with all dark things of the night. With all things that have no shadows. Maybe I have made a deal with the devil, or he has ransomed my life. Or worse still, I have pawned away the little that can be called my soul, to him. Whether this was done at a price or not, I simply cannot recall. I have erased all of my life from hope and memory. My father is a monster that repented, and my mother died when I was young. I have not forgiven them both for leaving me when I needed them most. I have no recollection of my mother, only that she must have been beautiful and that things might not have turned out the way they are had she been here. But all of that lies in the sordid and soiled past that I have endured in my lonely years. The lonely, serrated path of life that I wish I had not crossed. But I know that wishes are never horses. The world of fantasy has its own demarcations. And all of that now merely constitutes a figment and fractured history of my presence. It is a sad history, but they say history is made by those who write it. But sad stories must be told. They deserve to be told.

I will mention it again. My name is J... 

I stick to facts, which people do not want to understand, for facts can be cold, and yet very true. Facts are not paranormal. They do not border the lines of myth or legend. Facts stand out, and for that solitary reason, facts tend to be thwarted by all men on earth. But it is the normal trend for humans to desire only the warmer side of life. They will reject truth if it can be avoided. Reject truth if it is too thorny to be sat upon. But life is a coin, head or tails, good or bad; happy or sad; light or darkness; yin and yang…

My name is J…

 I'm an angry man. I’m further than the emotion of anger, for that emotion surpassed me a long time ago. But I have my reasons for this boiling emotion that seeps through me, but I will not utter them here. I will not utter them anywhere in this book. Only my actions will shape out my character, not my anger. And this is another fact, and I do stick to facts; for these alone push the rungs of our desolate lives forward. I will not utter the reasons for my anger; lest someone perceive me as a lost or lesser individual, or as a pessimist, which I out-rightly do not believe that I am. And that is a very strong disbelief that I will take with me to the depths of the earth when longevity decides to call. I am simply a catalyst in a chain reaction of fateful and chronological events. Occurrences drive me forward. I am part of the reaction, and I’m also a gear that is part of the action. This world is a very angry world. Life is choked by such weeds of anger that cannot be uprooted because the root causes lies too deep below, and the people have merely lost the guesstimate of how deep such anger runs in the ‘crack of the doom’ of the world. But people are creations with only a mirage of thought. They do not understand this incapacity that is within them. They rather choose to ignore any discrepancy that crosses their paths. The people of the world understand nothing at all. They are gruesome pawns, weakened pieces of the game that can be manoeuvred at will, and when they are moved, they are sacrificed for things they do not even comprehend. Still, that is the oil running the huge machine called the world, and simply put; I’m there to fuel it; to fuel it and make sure that its colossal fires can surpass the requisite levels.

My name is J… and now you know my story. I like to stick to facts. For these alone, these are needed in a life that runs parallel with strife. Now this is my past and my present. It is my sojourn into the uncertain future. And I will not tell you about my life again, for if you hear about a certain thing more than too often, it becomes diluted and loses its merit. But for now I wait in the present. The opening scene is perfect. Subdued I must be in the eeriness of the deathly still night. I am removed from my own shadow in the hugging darkness. Removed from my body and thoughts. It must be so if I am to serve as a functional human being. I am a caricature of my former self. But the thoughts still race on my powered brain. I wait. I am prostrated to the limit. Ready I am. Ready I am…

For suddenly, in the eerie storm of that night, in the unwelcome darkness that many a man fears because he thinks a beast lurks somewhere. In that bare void I have suddenly turned, metamorphosed and transformed into an eager animal that hunts and finds solace in the gathering night. I’m a tiger burning bright in the deep forest of the night. The world will soon know about me. My destiny calls me out there in the wild. Ravenous, beast and claw. It is close now. My achievements are so so close...

My name is J…

I will not tell you who my name is. I cannot utter it now, nor will I utter it to you anywhere or anytime soon. The night outside is cruelly cold. It blisters the skin, slowly, until you can swear to your gods that you have no skin at all. I shudder at the unwelcoming night. The street is quiet. Easter is here. The people are fiddling with the holiday of one man killed on the cross. The rest have been forgotten. I look up at the star studded sky. The moon is shining bright, clear, like an aurora, a strange halo that is beckoning for the unknown. If only it knows what borders on my mind. If only it knows the hauntings of my world. If only it knows...

***

2230hrs...

Still the night is cold. But the street is not quiet anymore. There is a noise. A slight tap on the earth. My sharp ears quickly get wind of it. Small taps, short strides. Human steps. Woman steps. I begin to calculate at once. The blood curdles and boils. The heart beats painfully at the sinews. Blood races. The temperature jumps furiously. The eyes enlarge. The lungs expand. It has just begun. Air goes in and out, and I breathe furiously in the booming darkness. 

This is it. This is the hunt. This is the reward for the wait. The trophy of patience. The medal of honour. This is my seat of usurpation. I wait in the crude hugging darkness, the adrenalin taps now fully and dripping open. Then I see the shadow snaking from one of the buildings. A few seconds later she appears. An angel sent from the heavens. A woman of distinct and allured beauty. Even in the din of the night, in the dankness of the atmosphere, her skin glows, and her eyes shine. I wait silently. I have been turned on. All the organs pump rapidly. The hunt is now on…

I must wait silently in the enveloping darkness before I pounce.

The hunt is now in full swing...

  ***

Mrs. Smith tells me something is brewing today. And so I decide to listen to her as she teaches me the tricks of the trade.

 "You get the weapon of choice,” she says, “and then attack so savagely at that piece of human flesh. So savagely that the skins warps and tears and slits and gargles. As soon as the weapon (preferably a knife) sinks into the soft flesh, you twist it. Then you lash out like a wicked cobra. That way the wound never heals..."

I nod at her. "You always seem to know so much."

 "It is my job to know." she replies. And then she smiles at me. "Anything else you want to know?"

 "This is just fine," I say, nodding, the knife in my hands, twisting and lashing in the
air. "This is just fine, Mrs. Smith."

The woman smiles at me. "You must be careful with the knife. It is a weapon of choice. Careful with the weapon of choice."

I smile inevitably, but the smile soon disappears. She is not smiling. "You know the rules..."

 "Yes ma'am." I reply matter-of-factly. "Yes ma'am, I know the rules."

Mrs. Smith looks around her. "Go and feel the tingle of the night, son. For tonight is the full moon. The demons of the world have awoken. Go and feel them in the still of the night air, son. You need to fulfil the number."

I nod. Then I look at the watch on the wall. Soon I must spring forth. I look at the time again.

2200hrs...

It is time. It is time…

***

CHAPTER THREE


 Chief Detective Sergeant, Miles Pilani Ncube sipped his coffee silently. He liked to sip his coffee without disturbance always. That was rule number one. The other rules you soon learnt with time. As soon as you’d learnt about the important rule, you were fine in his office. The new junior watched quietly from across the wooden desk that was piled with papers, cases, unsolved mysteries, and Lotto tickets that had not won Miles anything ever since he’d started playing the game ten years ago. The detective sipped again, and then he put his fingers on the hem of the coffee mug, running them slowly. He was thinking, and that was the sign everyone who knew him could not disregard. Morrison, the junior detective again watched helplessly as his new boss traced a line on the brink of the mug. He opened his mouth to say something.

 "Ah ah...," Miles put his finger on his lips, stopping him mid-way. "Not on my coffee sipping-thinking-time, son..."

Morrison smiled reluctantly, slowly at first, and then he slipped deep into the uncomfortable metal chair and, closed his mouth and said nothing. Let the man have his coffee-sipping-thinking-time, he told himself. The new detective slid from the chair, stood up from it some seconds later, making sure it did not grind on the floor. Matilda had forewarned him. "Never grind the chair. He hates that grinding sound in the same manner he hates his stepmother. And that is not a joke, mind you." Miles would not only scream at him if something of that nature occurred, but he could do more. The worst case was Morrison could totally be assigned to somewhere else, god knows where, because the man did not care. That was Chief Sergeant Miles P. Ncube in a nutshell. MPN, they called him.

"Careful. Careful with that chair, Mr. Morrison." Miles warned, speaking for the second time, from behind the comfort of his coffee mug. His left eye was fixated on the junior detective, who nodded slightly. Slowly, Morrison, who had stood up, manoeuvred his eyes, studying the unkind place that this man called an office. High on the grey wall was perched the framed portrait of the president, and next to him, the chubby Commissioner of Police smiled, both of them were dressed up to the nines. Morrison nodded imperceptibly, but Miles caught the nod. "I take that you don’t do that at every office you visit?"

Morrison cleared his throat, more a formality that a necessity. "Er, do what, sir?”

 “That.” Miles said, his face splashed with a look of discontent.

Morrison shook his head, a slight smiled on his face. “Oh, that? No, no sir. I was just familiarising."

Miles sneered. "Well, maybe you’d be better off familiarising when you're in your office, young man. And that, in actual fact, will take you plenty of years to have. Or maybe you want to get out of my office and familiarise?" The man said. The junior detective shook his head, the smile still planted on his face. "And wipe that smile off your face.” The man went on, “And sit down too, if you know the meaning of the word. This is my office. My hub. I call it the pod. A place of peace. You will respect that, young detective."

Morrison sat down. Detective Miles had exhausted the contents of his holy mug. He slid the holy grail cup across the desk, and then frowned slowly. "So you're the new guy, right?"

Morrison nodded, seeing that at last sense was prevailing in the office of his boss. "Yes, sir. We were supposed to meet yesterday."

“And?” The eyebrows were razor sharp on the man’s forehead.

Morrison cleared his throat slightly, this time a necessity, for his throat had suddenly gone dry. “I came at ten o’clock but you had already gone for an important meeting, I was told by Maltida.” He paused, trying not to look at the face of the man in front, which at that precise moment he could not decode.

“Doesn’t look to me like you believe any single thing you just said in that sentence, young man. Am I correct? Or then maybe you don’t think the meeting was important?” Miles asked, his eyes searching for an answer from Morrison’s wrinkled brow.

Morrison shook his head. “No I don’t, sir.”

 “Don’t what, son?” Miles asked, staring at his mug with one eye. The other was trained at Morrison. “You don’t think my meeting was important, or you don’t think at all?”

The junior detective forced a smile, because he really had nothing else to do at the moment. The man was a devil re-incarnate. “The meeting was important, sir. Excuse me if I sounded like I was implying that it wasn’t.” he stuttered.

Miles did not seem impressed. "You seem to imply a lot of things to me. You seem to exude something else too, something that my detective head cannot seem to make out. I will though, it’s only a matter of time. Maybe you need to cut some of that college talk, school, or wherever they seem to be recruiting you people from these days. The police force has become child's play.” He paused, and Morrison looked relieved. “Ok, so what can we do with you?"

Morrison swallowed hard. "I'm the new detective, sir. My name is Morrison Moyo. Age 30. Fresh from Morris Depot Academy, sir."

Miles smiled ruefully. "Ok. Nicely done, young man. So they call it the Academy these days, I see. Fancy name for a place of knocked up policemen and policewomen."

 "Matilda told me I should see you first thing, sir. Since I couldn’t yesterday." Morrison went on, unbattered by the man’s crude sentiments.

 "Of course, Matilda." Miles seemed to agree with him for the first time. "And she also told you to barge into my office during my coffee-sipping-thinking-time?"

Morrison nodded slightly. "That she didn’t say, sir. I gather I entered the office on my own accord, sir, if I stand to be corrected, sir.”

Miles suddenly laughed. "You gather? Nice word of choice. So you’re also a Collins Dictionary?” Morrison did not respond, but he kept the smile on his lips. Miles continued. “Now that you’re here, Mr. Morrison. What do you gather we do with you now?" Miles asked, a look of scorn wrapped on his face.

Morrison remained smug. Matilda had not forewarned him on how this man was going to be such an asshole. He smiled though, the thought of wanting to hurl something at the man in front him tingling on his mind. Miles Ncube in front of him surveyed him slowly, and then he nodded, and smiled. "A smart ass, I hear that you are. Well, the station is short of smart asses, they’re almost extinct in the whole force anyway. I can assure you about that."

Morrison shifted uncomfortably in the chair, scratching an imaginary pimple on his face. The detective continued. "We need those kind. We need the smart-asses around this hole of a place for a change. Could spice up things a bit. You up to the job, son?"

Morrison coughed. "Uhm, yes...sir."

 "Nice lad." Miles added. "I like the spirit that resides in you." He clasped his hands together, blew some steam into them, and then clapped them suddenly. "Get Matilda into my office, kid." The new detective looked confused. Miles went on, "Yes, you. Unless if I've been talking to myself this whole time."

Morrison stood up reluctantly, and then he went to the door, opened it slightly and peeked outside. He put his head back in. "And where do I find her, sir?"

The detective smiled at him. It was a smile filled with sarcasm. "How about we make that you first assignment, huh?"

Morrison forced a smile.

 “And close that door when you leave.” Miles said.

  ***

 The woman they called Matilda was quite beautiful, and she was still single. He figured she was the only thing that seemed to bring life into the police station. Bulawayo Central Police Station was a quite a large building, and served as the headquarters for the whole of the city. Grey, and dull looking, it was still a police station, and once you went in, the usual arrangement of all police stations took you in. First would be the over-the-counter reception, typical of most stations, only that this one was made of concrete and instead of the usual wooden type. Behind that, one or two officers were stationed, one or two more sitting a bit further away, and working away on a computer or cabinet file desk. Morrison Moyo waited. Once she had found him, Maltida took him on a small familiarisation tour around the whole place. It took them around ten minutes, walking, and talking, and Morrison asking questions along the way. When done, Maltida took him back to Miles. They found him with the coffee mug again, but this time he was willing to welcome them in and talk, the mug still on his hands. He looked at them, and then waved at Maltida. "Thanks." he said, a silent sign that said ‘ok, you can get the hell out now Maltida’. Maltida got the message and left the office. The two of them alone, Morrison remained quiet. He spoke when Miles nodded his head at him.

 "Nice place, sir." Morrison blatantly lied.

 "I see." Miles replied. "Work here for the next 15 years and we will see how you fare with that statement of yours then." He said. "This is a nasty job we do here, son. So you better ready 
yourself for some serious stuff. Homicide detectives have to be on for the job. We live like 
we have a stick shoved up our asses. People are killing each other out there on the streets. It’s mean out there, son"

 "I understand, sir. The world is not a safe place anymore. It never was. I understand that very much."

 "Oh, you think you do, but right now I know you don’t, kid." Miles interjected. Morrison wished the man would drop the word ‘kid’. The man went on, "You see, homicide is quite interesting. Of course it’s got its shitty and gross moments, but what doesn't in this world? But you get paid when you catch the bastards, and know that the victim and its family get closure. The pay sucks though."

Morrison smiled. "It is government, sir. No insult intended."

 "None taken, but you got that one right." Miles added with a smile. "See, I'm beginning to like you already. Ever heard of the Page Killer?"

Morrison hesitated. "Notoriously, sir. We were first told about him at the Academy." he replied. "It's the guy who's been allegedly responsible for the death of three women so far. He leaves a ripped out page of a novel on the bodies of his victims. All smeared with blood, sir."

Miles looked impressed. He made cartwheels with his hands. "Go on, go on."

 "His latest victim was another woman last week. She was found raped, her throat slit twice, her stomach had also been slit, and the signature novel page was found inside her opened stomach."

 "I'm impressed, detective Morrison Moyo. But please, do not stop now. Interest me." Miles went on.

Morrison smiled. "That should be just about it sir. Of course maybe the fact that he is a man has already been confirmed."

Miles' eyes lit up. "Now how would we confirm that as a fact?"

 "I mean, sir. The victims, all women, are always raped, sir."

The senior detective smiled. "I was just asking. Of course the bastard is a man. It's most always the human being with balls. And he works alone, and prides himself in his work. The pages he leaves on the victims are just some of his ways of saying, This is me. I did this. Catch me if you can. Of course I will get him, if that's the last thing I will ever do."

Morrison nodded. Miles slid open a drawer, and from it he took a grey file, and threw it on top of the desk. "All the info we have on this guy so far." he said.

Morrison took the file and perused. He paused after a few seconds. "What do I do with this, sir?"

Miles looked at him. "You're a smart guy, so figure it out, detective. You can wipe your ass with it for all I care."

Morrison's throat filled with a lump. "I will read through it the whole night, sir."

 "That you will do." said Miles effectively. "Forget what they taught you at the Academy. Tomorrow, you begin being a real detective."

                                                                              

CHAPTER FOUR

Twist and lash, she tells me. Those are her exact words. And I like following them to the core. I must not digress. It is folly.

Twist, and then lash...

The last woman screamed, but this one is a real beauty. She embraces her pain like she was born for it. Her name is Maria. I need to know this. It is important. Mrs Smith's words stare at me. "Make sure you ask for their names. This is important. Put that into memory. Analyse that. That will help you keep count of your trophies. Every man must have his stock-take. Then after that, you can then twist, and lash. Remember the number."

I look at her. This victim is beautiful when she is naked. Her skin glows in the light. Her breasts are perked, the hairy mound between her legs looks heaved. She has the art. She is the art. She is my most prized one yet. I sniff the air and then turn to the woman again. The effect of chloroform has worn over her. The morphine will now do its work. She opens her eyes slowly, fluttering them like a shy bird in the midst of summer afternoon. Her eyes are dull though, it must be the pain oozing all over her body.

 "Where am I?" she asks with intrepid fear. I can smell her fear. I can almost taste it on on my tongue. Hers is a fear of all fears, a fear of the unknown, a phobia that rips even the strongest and bravest of men’s hearts.

I smile. "Shh...Do not be afraid. You are here with me, in paradise, Maria."

 "Please do not kill me! Please!" she suddenly begs. Her voice is like a song, a lullaby I never had in my life. Adrenalin pumps into me again, like a poorly administered overdosed shot from an untrained nurse. Maria wriggles, but she is too weak. The blood she has lost will not allow the body to function. I stare at her. She must stop struggling, or she will awaken the monster within me before its rightful time.

 "I will not kill you, Maria. I will make you live famously instead. Tomorrow you will be in the papers, on the TV, on the internet pages of the world. Everyone will know about you. You need to appreciate that, and it's all for free."

Then she screams, and I suddenly turn into a monster, blood and gory pictures stream down my mind, and then, like Mrs. Smith says, I turn and lash, and I twist, and the knife sinks deep down on her stomach, blood spurting all over, revealing the warm intestines. It all happens in a haze, and the realm I am in at that obscure moment is mine. Mine alone. Mine to relinquish. Mine to live for. Five minutes later, I am finished with the work, bloody hands and all. The zeal has suddenly gone from me, that spur of the moment suddenly inept. I stare at the work in front of me, but there is no remorse, just an odd feeling, and a light head. I look for the plastic bag, find it, and then tear off another page from my book. Mrs Smith is watching. 
 
 "You have done well again J..." she says my name, and it rings in the still night.

My name.

How I long to be called by it. How I long to hear it being called. My name...

“Very good, my son.” Mrs. Smith continues. “Very good J.... You know what to do now.”

I nod grimly, the woman's body on my shoulders. Up in the grey sky, the fullest moon shines ever brightly, eerily. It calls for me, it bays for my blood, calling like a pied piper, whispering a tune that I must follow. And Mrs Smith's voice rings in my ears. The demons are out, my good child. The demons are out J..., she says...
 

***

Detective Morrison spent more than six hours on the grey file. There was just about everything there was to know, as little as it was. The killer was a man, probably in his thirties, the file said. He was now being branded as The Page Killer of Bulawayo, and had three women to his name. All the three women were in their mid-twenties. The first one, Naledi Nkomo had been found by dogs at a rubbish site, her body decomposed severely. Her family had not seen her for a week. She had disappeared after having a night out with her friends at a local club. She had told her friends that she wanted some air, and had gone out of the club, and that was the last time they had seen her, until when she was found decomposing in a pit, with marks on her neck, fingers and hands. Her stomach had been slit open, with surgical precision, and a page from a book was stuffed inside her stomach. Morrison’s eyes hovered at the copy of the page, and he began to read it slowly. Page 36 and page 37:

 .... and she stood there, this woman of my dreams, ready for me to take her to my abyss of pleasure. She was smiling, and her white teeth shone with her face. "You want me?" she asked.
 
I nodded, and then began to caress her satin skin, my fingers ready to wring that beautiful neck of hers...

Morrison paused. He read the rest of the story, turning over the other page. The excerpt involved the man making love to the woman but it ended there. He put the page aside, and looked at the next item. The second woman, her name still unknown, had been found a week later, the same gruesome slits on her neck and stomach had been found on her, and another page found on her stomach. Morrison looked at the page. This time the man was making love to another woman on the first page, Page 45. On the next page, page 46, he continued making love and that ended there, but there was mention of him being dissatisfied with the lovemaking. Morrison paused, an idea encroaching him. The pages were all about the man making love, but there was no connection there. He put the pages aside, and went to the third victim, a woman named Sofia, who had been found by two street kids inside a city council dustbin. She had been strangled, and then raped, and her stomach slit and sewn back together using some hospital twine. The post-mortem had revealed, like the other two, and inside her stomach was another page from a book. Page 54 and Page 56. Morrison read them, already having a slight idea of what it would contain. And he was right. The man was romancing another woman again on both pages. Morrison flipped the pages of the file for the next two hours, and then he reluctantly went to sleep.

 ***

 "And how are you this morning?" Miles greeted him when he entered the office the next morning.

Morrison smiled, "Morning, sir. I'm good. Slept with the file under my pillow." he said with a smile.

 "Encouraging indeed." Miles replied. "Take a seat, and let's hear what you think about this guy."

Morrison obeyed, and took the chair, making sure it did not make noise against the floor. "Quite a lot actually, sir." he said, when he had settled down.

Miles smiled, "Tell me about it, detective."

 "Well, sir. For starters, do we know the author of the book those pages are coming from?"

Miles beamed. "We're still checking on that one. "You think it’s all from one book?"

 "Definitely looks so to me." he replied. "This has got to be one book, sir. The character, that man who is always making love to the women. He kills his women after making love to them. That's what I think."

Miles was listening. "But is it one man? I mean the one who makes love to the woman. It could be different man, but anyway go on, I’m all ears." he said. Morrison went on.

"I think that the first thing we ought to do as soon as we can..."

 "You ought to do." Miles corrected. "Continue anyway..."

Morrison smiled. "One thing I must find out first is who the author of that book is. And what happens in the story. And I’m quite sure that the guy in the story is just one guy, and he’s got to be the protagonist. But it’s just a hunch though..."

 "Hunch." Miles interjected again. "Swear I haven't heard that Sherlock Holmes word being used in twenty-five years. Anyway, tell me about this hunch of yours." He slid his chair away from the desk and put his hands behind his head.

Morrison smiled. "Well, it is a good word, sir. A good detective word."

 "Go on. What's this clever hunch of yours? My hunches are called gut feelings son, just to let you know. “ He said.

Morrison smiled slowly. "Well, sir. My hunch, gut feeling or whatever I'm thinking, is that this man here, the character in the book must be what our killer bases himself upon. Yes, a wild idea I know, but then again I'm just spit-balling here."

Miles remained quiet for a while, and then he let out a smile. "You sure full of them words, son. You see, I have thought about that too, in fact most of what you just spit balled I have thought about. I just wanted to see whether we're on the same page here. Corroboration is what I need here. But I’ll admit, we are on the same page alright."

Morrison smiled slowly. "Are we, sir?"

 "Seems so." he said. "You see, the man on those six pages we found on the bodies of the women is the protagonist. He is the romantic. And I would bet, and judging from those encounters in those six pages, he likes his sex rough, dangerous, the kinky stuff. BDSM, that kind of stuff. And that he kills his ladies after having sex with them."

 "A masochist?" Morrison added.

Miles nodded. "Yes. A masochist. A sadist. He's one of the kind, a nut-head, but a murderous nut-head. He’s into BDSM, deep into it. We call these kinds the paint by numbers killers. And I would bet my last money that he needs serious psychiatric help too. Our guy’s into more of the gruesome stuff. Some people need domination, some submission. He is the dominant type. Enjoys inflicting pain on his women."

 "All that from six pages, sir?" Morrison asked.

 "Yes, all that and possibly more, son. I'm still looking for the name of the novel though. 
I've searched the Internet, bookstores, everything and everyone who deals with old and rare books."

  "The novel is a rare book?" Morrison put up another question. Miles nodded.

 "I gather that it could be, if you let me use your word, from the newsprint used, the book is an old book, not a bestseller though, which tightens our permutations. And possibly printed in the seventies. The thing is we seem to be failing to get face of, is its title."

 "Or the author." Morrison added, his brow rising slightly. “Shouldn’t be a hard thing to find out though.”

 "Yes, and no." said Miles. "Possibly should be a book printed in the seventies, during The Lord of the Rings time."

 "Lord of the what, sir?" asked Morrison.

 "The Lord of the Rings. It's a set of three books written by Tolkien. My favourite read, I must say."

 "Oh," said Morrison, scratching his chin. "So what do I do today, sir?"

Miles smiled effervescently. "You go out there, Morrison. Do whatever you can do. The net, bookstores, whatever. I need to get a name to that book. There is a connection. This guy is playing catch me if you can."

 "There always is a connection, sir, with serial killers that is. I figure it's his mark. He wants it known that he is the one responsible for the murders. He is playing hide and seek with us."

Detective Miles nodded. "Precisely. You and I will work exceptionally well."

Morrison's face looked grateful to the man. "I sincerely hope so, sir." He paused, "If it is not trouble, sir..." he began.

Miles smiled. "I thought that question was coming. You want to know what happened to the other guy I was working with?"

 "If it's not trouble, sir." Morrison insisted. Miles became quiet for a few moment,
then he looked up.

 "He died doing his job. And that's what I hope you, and all of us will do. That is all I can tell you for now. Go and do your job, and do it well, detective."

 ***

Plumtree road stretches far and wide, and being one big a road, it connects most of the other tributaries of small roads to it, drawing them to it like a big hungry magnet, a hornet’s nest. And on Sundays, the city of Bulawayo, unlike most cities, sleeps, and quietens down. The people on the big avenues become exposed, and one can almost count everyone who is the city centre when the day is on a Sunday. But not that day. Plumtree road, the great tributary was overflowing. The Easter holidays were upon the people, and the Assemblies of God Church Easter Mass was nearing its end. Starting at six in the morning, the members had had to walk towards the main church in the city centre, mimicking the journey taken by Magdalene on her way to Jesus' tomb. The celebration is colourful, and the crowd of followers and the faithful marches, singing, bells ringing, and the road explodes with a life it sees only once in a year. 

Morrison was driving his Mazda 323 slowly, along Plumtree road, careful not to knock over any of the ululating women that lined the road. It took him thirty minutes to get into town, a journey which normally would take him about five minutes on any normal day. When he got to the station, he went over to Matilda, and she smiled when she saw him approaching.

 "How are you adjusting, detective Morrison?"

He noticed her white set of perfect teeth first, and then her dreamy eyes. "Not bad, thanks. By the way, would you mind calling me call me Morrison. The detective thing sounds a bit strange for the time being."

Maltida smiled. "If that's how you want it."

 "That is how I want it," he smiled back. “I think I’m catching up pretty fast.”

 "So Morrison, you married?" Maltida asked, a slight glint in her eyes.

He stared at her for a second. "Well, that would be one question I didn't expect on my second day on the job!"

Maltida laughed, and pulled her braided hair backwards. "Just pulling your leg there! By the way, the Boss told me you should come to his office first thing." 

“Boss?” hesaid. She nodded, and pointed in the direction of Miles’ office. Morrison smiled and then proceeded towards the office. The man was already waiting for him. "Have a goodnight?" he asked, when Morrison closed the door behind him. 

 "Wouldn't say that, sir." he replied honestly. He had a terrible Saturday night.

Miles stared at him. "Happens to all of us, the shitty nights I mean. Any luck? How far with getting  the name of the book?"

 "Am working on it, sir. I went to eleven bookstores yesterday. I think I spent the next five hours there, flipping through every page written in the seventies."

Miles looked unimpressed. "You found nothing?"

 "Nothing so far, sir. But I'm still checking." replied Morrison.

 "Well, let's hope we get to something this time, Morrison." Miles said. "You got a pen with you?"

Morrison handed Miles the red pen. He scribbled for a few seconds, and then slid the piece of paper across his desk. "Try these places too. Antique book shops around Bulawayo city centre."

Morrison looked up at Miles. "I've checked with those too, sir."

 "Ah. Interesting to note. Recheck then." he said with a smile. "And by the way, last night, The Page Killer struck again. This time it was an eighteen year old woman. She was found in a freshly dug ditch, the words veritas inscribed on the inside of her left thigh with a knife. She had also been raped."

 "Veritas? That means truth in Latin." Morrison said slowly. Miles looked up at him and nodded.

 "Well, I’m impressed. You speak Latin?" he asked, a genuine surprise on his face.

 "Just a bit, sir. Learnt it for a term at high school. Gifford High School." replied Morrison. Miles smiled.

 "That’s a interesting coincidence!" he said thoughtfully. “I went to the same school myself!”

 "That’s some well-timed coincidence, sir. “ he smiled at the thought. “So a white woman is found dead in a ditch. Words are inscribed on her thigh?" Morrison said.

Miles looked at him for a while. "Precisely." he nodded. "The post-mortem reveals that she might have been killed around 4am today."

Morrison remained quiet. "That sounds pretty fast. How did you get to know so fast?"

Miles' face turned noticeably grim. "I did not happen to know so fast. This time the killer 
called me and told me where to find the body."

Morrison's face also turned grim. "Very daring for him to make a call like that, don’t you think? You think he wants to increase his game? Or he thinks we are moving too slow for him? Which would be interesting in any case."

 "You bet." replied Detective Miles, standing up to switch the kettle on. “Interesting indeed”

  ***

The scene of the crime looked like a reincarnated hell. Inside the ditch, the woman lay, dead and naked. Her skin was flushed out, and her eyes were still open, reminiscing her last moment of terror. The two detectives sank down to the ditch, with Morrison in front. Closer to the corpse, they could now clearly see how she had met her untimely death. Her eyes were white, her body lay spread eagled, the thigh with the mark with the word veritas was visible metres away.

 "You came here first, sir?" Morrison asked.

 "When I got the call, yes." Miles said. "Get the freaking Polaroid. We need photos of her before she is taken for the post-mortem. Pity to end such a beautiful life."

 "Pity." Morrison said. "Pity."

He took shots of the body from different angles, and twenty minutes later, they left the desolate place, which was beginning to swarm with other police officials.

***

Her name was Tinky, and she was beautiful and he knew he had to talk to her the moment he set his eyes upon her face. Morrison was coming from Miles' office when he met her at reception. Maltida was the one who did the introductions. "Looks like you're not the baby anymore Detective Tinky Dube. This, this here is the newest hot cop at Central." she said, nodding with her head in the direction of a slightly amazed Morrison. He turned and faced the woman before Matilda could say anything else.

 "Hey.” Morrison stammered. 

 “Hey.” Tinky replied, a straight reaction on her face.

“I’m Morrison. The new guy around here, but I guess news travels fast here." Morrison went on, recovered from his stammering. "You must be tired."

Tinky gave him a stare, in complete amazement. Even Maltida gazed at him "What...?" she asked, a dry smile on her lips.

 "You're supposed to ask why?" Morrison went on, still as serious. The two women looked at each other. Maltida looked speechless.

 "Exactly what would she be tired of?" she asked, her eyes rolling at him.

Morrison smiled. "Are you tired, Miss Tinky?"

 "What?" replied Tinky, quite unsure of what she was replying to.

He interjected her. "Yes? Do you need to know why?"

The two women turned to each other, and then Tinky said, "Yes, I want to know why, if you know why I should be tired, that is."

Morrison cleared his throat. "Because ever since seeing you, you've been running all over on my mind." He laughed. 

They did not. 

 "You guys don't get it? It's supposed to be a joke."

Maltida and Tinky stared at him, and then at each other, before they burst out laughing hilariously. "You'll never get a woman with such a dumb pick up line!!" cried Matilda.

Morrison laughed. "Just testing the waters here, ladies!" he said. "So you figure that's a dumb pick up line?"

Tinky nodded, rubbing her watering eyes. "All pick up lines are dumb, no matter how good you think they are. You see, we women are creatures of intelligence, and a guy who uses pick up lines is insulting our intelligence. Right Maltida?" Maltida nodded. Tinky continued, "So that'll never work with any women. Just that men will never learn that pick up lines are so old fashioned! That's the kind of stuff you saw when you between yourselves, men only, at a bar or something. Not with real women! For first impressions, you get one out of ten, Mr. Morrison."

Maltida nodded in agreement. "You damn right there!” she turned around, then looked at her wrist. “Well, seems the integration between you two is working tops. I've to get to the fax machine in the other room. Blast this goddamn place. I'll leave you two to enjoy each other's company."

Tinky hollered at her. "Enjoy? Don't count your eggs yet, Maltida."

Morrison watched as Maltida skirted from her reception desk, until she disappeared from the corridor. From the corner of his eyes, he noticed Tinky making a face.

 "So you're going to stare at Maltida like that forever?" she asked.

Morrison looked up and smiled. "Of course not. I’ve known her for two days or so. But Matilda is such a character, isn't she?"

Tinky nodded, "You can definitely say that again. Apparently someone is yet to tell her to stop trying to be a matchmaker." Morrison nodded. "She is terrible.”

 “Pathetic.” Morrison added. When he noticed Tinky frowning, he retracted the statement. “Not that you’re irritating or anything.”

 Tinky smiled. “You don’t know me that much. Maybe I am irritating. Anyway, you were in the Academy before you came to this place?" she asked.

 "Yep, guilty as charged. Fresh fish." Morrison said with a little smile.

 "A virgin, I see." Tinky continued. "Was there myself in that hole of a place. Left two years back though, and came to another hole again. If only I had known."

 "Oh, I see. Is it that bad?" Morrison said, swallowing. They had begun moving down one of the corridors. He'd never expected the word virgin from her. "I never saw you there though."

She turned and smiled. "You couldn't have. I kept to myself most the time. That's me. Don't want to be bothered."

To Morrison, that meant 'keep off'. He drew lines on his forehead and said something between oh and ok. "So how was it for you?"

 "Being a virgin in this place?"

He shook his head. "I don't mean it like that. Being a virgin, the other way around, I mean--"

Tinky laughed, a twinkle on one of her eyes. "Hey, don't get worked up. I know the virgin you're talking about. Besides even if I was a virgin, you know, the virgin virgin? The one you men like to talk and lie about, why would I lie about it myself?"

Morrison faked an embarrassed smile. "Ok, let's not even get there. By the way, where are we going?"
"You tell me." she said, giving him a crude look.

Morrison scratched his chin for a few imperceptible moments. "Haven’t the faintest idea. So uhm… Tinky? That's your real, real name?"

She looked at him, her face expressionless. "No, my real name's Jesus. My parents are Mary and Joseph."

Morrison shook his head. "Sorry, that wasn't supposed to come out like that. Didn't mean it like that. Just that your name sounds--"

 "Dollish? Like I'm a Barbie doll? Don't worry." Tinky said, her face still blank. "You're not the first one anyway."

 "Didn't meant it like that. Anyway, uhm…will you look at the time…" Morrison suddenly said. "I need to see the boss, Miles. It's been nice talking to you. But, uhm… you'll have to excuse me..." He went on, half remembering the meeting he was supposed to be having, and half hoping that he could get away from her, as fast a possible.

Tinky smiled. "Classic."

 "What's that?" he asked. 

 "Never mind. So you're trying to leave me hey? Look, is your meeting at 10.30am?" she asked, checking her silver wrist watch. Morrison nodded. Tinky looked up and smiled. "Then it seems we're headed for the same place, detective. I have a meeting with the man at 10.30am also."

Morrison swallowed. "Then ladies first. You lead the way, miss."

Tinky stared at him. "Oh no. Guy's first. You guys come first in everything." she smiled. "Even during sex." 

Morrison put on his rubber smile. Tinky looked dead serious. She followed him, till they reached Miles' office, office number 4.

But he was grimacing silently, almost excitedly. A new thought was encroaching his mind. With this woman around, the new job was suddenly turning out to be a very very interesting experience after all.

 ***

Miles' office was the same that morning when the two detectives went in. And they found him having his coffee-sipping-time, and for the next three minutes, the only sound in the office was the fan on Miles' desk. When he had finished, he looked at both people behind his desk, and then rubbed his hands vigorously. "I see that you two have met."

 "Unfortunately so, sir." replied Tinky, a plain smile plastered on her perfectly rounded lips. She turned to Morrison, and nodded at him, her eyebrows tilting endearingly.

 "Yes, we've met." he put up, shifting on the metal chair. "Maltida had the kindness to introduce me to Miss Tinky, sir."

 "Er, point of correction, that would be detective, Detective Tinky Nkomo." Tinky said matter-of-factly, giving Morrison a who-do-you-think-you-are look.

 "Yes, sir. Detective Tinky Nkomo and I have met." Morrison repeated, feeling a lump run down on his dry throat. If he had a gun, he would have shot himself right there between the eyes. He cleared the lump on the throat as fast as it had seemed to come.

Miles smiled at Tinky. "Then I hope you've briefed him, Tinky."

She shook her head. "Not yet, sir. I figured you'd want it to be done in your office. Can I do it now?"

Miles kept an unmoving face. "No, maybe you can do that next year."

Morrison smiled at Miles' statement. The snake was getting a dosage taste of its own poison. Tinky turned to face him. "Chief detective Miles has been called by the Interpol for a SADC meeting, so you have been assigned to work with me on the Page Killer case. I'll need to know everything you know."

Morrison raised his eyebrows. "But I've just been here for a few days. I can't possibly..."

Miles nodded his endorsement by interjecting. "Look, Tinky's now your new boss. Enjoy yourselves." he said, picking up his coffee mug and staring at it for no reason. "And my coffee's getting cold because of you two. Now will be good time to vamoose and find that killer." he said.

                                                         

CHAPTER ONE